


Out of the Woods

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cabin Fic, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Topping from the Bottom, Trapped In A Closet, bottom!Phil, fairly flimsy plot, frat regs, mentions of Agents of SHIELD, mentions of previous sexual relationships, super intense almost tantric sex, top!Clint, versatile characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Close quarters and peril can go a long way in testing someone's resolve, even someone as determined about frat regs as Phil Coulson tries to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jmathieson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/gifts).



> I wrote this for JMathieson for her birthday which I missed by a couple of days because I didn't decide to write it til the day before! To say thanks for writing such [an awesome series ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/49767)of Clint/Coulson stories and generally being cool :) 
> 
> Beta read by [Dunicha ](http://dunicha.tumblr.com)as always.
> 
> I was also helped with plot issues by kind volunteers [ feministfangirl](http://feministfangirl.tumblr.com/), [entangledwood ](http://entangledwood.tumblr.com/)and [avengercat](http://avengercat.tumblr.com/) and the title came unknowingly from Jmathieson herself ^-^ 
> 
> Please note that whilst there's no non-con in this fic, there are elements of 'I mustn't! but I want to!' and a character very _slightly_ coercing the other so please be mindful of your own self care before choosing to read.

"Agreed," Phil nods sharply as he talks on the gigantic mobile transmitter thing, looking for all the world like a 1980s businessman incongruously planted in the middle of the jungle. Why he can't wear tac suits like everyone else, Clint will never know.

 

Clint unscrews the sights from the heavy sniper rifle he's had strapped to his back all day - unnecessarily as it turns out since their target rather charitably did their job for them, jumping into his own homemade energy source claiming it was his and his alone. Phil talks to HQ about how well it went, giving Hill the short version of their target's long-winded speech, glancing over at Clint when he nods again and says, "A few days?"

 

Clint finishes packing up his weapons and checks how many energy bars and MREs are still floating around in his pack. Not many, but he has his crappy flexi-bow folded into the very bottom of his bag so they should be able to find some kind of sustenance if what he thinks he's overhearing means they're going to be here for a while. Camping isn't so bad, and who knows, perhaps he'll get to make out with Coulson like the time after Clint had kinda-almost-sorta died before Phil'd gone all Agent's Handbook about it. Clint thinks about that time a lot and Phil diligently never mentions it. 

 

"There's been an incident in London that SHIELD's sent all of it's smaller flying vehicles to, so we're going to have to sit tight for a couple of days til they can spare one. You're stuck with me and whatever shelter we can find, I'm afraid. Sorry." 

 

"No worries, boss," Clint replies, hoisting his pack and taking the briefcase full of Phil's stuff. He looks so out of place, sweating through the back of his suit in the humid heat of the jungle, but he's still as self assured as ever, stealing the case back from Clint before heading down the path away from the lab. 

 

The briefcase had been a part of his cover, and it had gotten him in with their target, but now it holds sheafs of documents that will need to be gone over, so it's a cumbersome necessity that's heavier than it had been when all it contained was a silencer and that 1980s yuppie cellphone thing. 

 

"Hey, can you open this?" Clint says, catching up and switching the case for a big bottle of water. Phil lets him, opening the bottle as Clint starts walking again and then not saying anything as Clint marches on ahead holding everything they currently own save the bottle. Phil isn't meant to carry heavy things since New York; Clint's taken it as something of a personal mission to make sure he doesn't overtax himself and he'll be damned if Phil fucks up his recovery on his watch. Neither of them say anything as they keep walking down the overgrown, narrow path between the trees, til they get to the crest of a hill and look at the valley below them. Nestled into one side of the hill, half covered in vines, is what looks like a Malibu hillside mansion, right here in the forests of Borneo.

 

"Nice digs," Clint says as the case is slipped out of his grasp. "How long've we got?"

"At least three nights," Phil replies, heading off towards it. It's not far, Clint reasons, though up until they get to the front door and Phil puts the damn thing down, he worries about the mess of scars that he imagines knit Phil's chest together, and keeps picturing them unravelling. He's almost surprised that there's no red staining through the front of Phil's shirt when he turns and waits for Clint (and the lockpicking set in his pack) to catch up.

 

It's a nice place, high ceilings and leafy palms here and there to fill the space. Marble floors and rattan furniture, huge wide windows looking out over the valley and the jungle beyond it. For all it's grandness it's not particularly huge; two bedrooms, a large living room with a veranda, a modest kitchen, a rather lavish bathroom and smaller ensuites. They have the place to themselves it seems, and there’s no evidence to show there was anyone else using this space save the scientist himself. 

 

Clint runs to the larger of the two and claims it for his own, stripping off his shirt as soon as he's cleared the room for bugs or hostiles. It's swelteringly hot, the air thick and unmoving, the large ceiling fans sadly not working since all the electricity seems to have been shut off along with the scientist. The whole place seems to have been powered by his still-to-be-understood energy source, so all they can do is strip down to their skivvies and open the windows. 

 

There's a small village a few miles away, so if they absolutely need to, they can break cover and go find things there, but in the slowly warming fridge and the pantry there's enough food for a few weeks let alone a few days, so they plan to stay put and not draw unnecessary attention. Phil's still in his suit pants and shirt, though he's dispensed with the tie and the jacket, and just that is enough to make Clint keep stealing glances when he can.

He starts in on the case full of papers, and Clint helps out just for something to do once he's cleaned all their guns and had a shower. He can feel Phil stealing glimpses at him too, which he does his level best to encourage, subtly flexing as he turns each page and stretching luxuriously far more frequently than needs be. It's too hot to put on clothes, so Clint permanently dispenses with his shirt and opts just for his cleanest underpants. The very rare breezes that blow through the house are good on his skin, and more than once he wonders aloud how Phil can possibly cope with the heat in his thick black pants. 

 

"They're charcoal," is all Phil says in reply, and Clint snorts before tossing his sheaf of energy readouts onto the coffee table and finding the wherewithal to make something to drink.

 

There's enough melting ice in the freezer to make two rounds of martinis, and Clint's glad of the time he's spent learning the finer points of making them from Tony Stark, because it's no coincidence that they're also Phil's favourite cocktail. The top button on Phil's shirt gets undone and then the second, and the third makes its way open after the second drink. Clint isn't good with subtle, so he lets his gaze linger on the small triangle of skin the buttons expose, smiling to himself when Phil raises an eyebrow in his direction. 

 

They make a meal out of tinned things, which is a luxury compared to some of the safehouses they've frequented in the past. Phil goes back to his files and Clint does situps and pressups in his eyeline, and he's not sure what he expected but Phil's still disappointingly reserved, pointedly flipping file pages and writing notes on his tablet.

 

They go to bed, and Clint sets an alarm, planning to get up a little early to truly get working on his plan of 'get Phil to kiss me again'. He sleeps pretty well - these beds are rather luxurious and it's easy to drift to sleep knowing Coulson's only a room away.

 

The next day, a warm shower wakes Clint up and he's back in his room when the biggest cockroach-beetle-thing appears out of nowhere. Phil runs into the room at the sound of Clint's undignified yelp and chuckles at Clint's frown and the way he's holding his towel around his waist. Clint would be more annoyed about it if he wasn't concentrating on trying not to be too obvious about the way his eyes can't help but linger on the thin tshirt and underwear Phil's wearing. 

 

Phil shoos the thing out of the room and then freezes at the same moment Clint hears someone at the front door. He pushes Clint towards the wardrobe built into the wall and then they're inches away from one another in the tiny dim space, trying to be silent as a woman dressed in a maid's uniform calls out "Professor? Professor?" in the living room. They watch her through the slits of the rattan door of the wardrobe as she straightens out Clint's bed and tidies up the room, but once it's been determined that she's not so much a threat as a potential security risk, and there's not much they can do but stay put, Clint's attention is drawn back to Phil and just how close they are.

 

"Hi," Clint whispers, barely a breath. 

"Shh," Phil breathes back. Clint's always been pretty bold, so he takes a chance, reaching out to ghost his fingers over the side of Phil's waist. Phil sighs softly, but doesn't move, and there's at least two inches he could probably go if he wanted to, Clint thinks, so he moves his hand further round, to the small of Phil's back where he can feel the curve there, and Phil moves forward of his own accord, right into Clint's space, and all the concerns of how Clint can make this ok, how he can work it out so he doesn't get a court martial go out of the window as Phil closes the distance and kisses him.

 

Whether they're quiet or not flies almost out of Clint's head as he kisses back, feels Phil's arm slide around his waist and then, as their kiss goes on and on and the woman sweeps the room outside, slides his hand first up and then down Clint's back to slowly palm at Clint's ass. It's almost a blessing, being in this tiny silent space, because if they weren't there, Clint's sure he'd melt or at the very least pass out and fall to the floor in an undignified heap. As it is, he valiantly kisses back, stretching his own hand down to feel the full weight and curve of Phil's perfect ass, and when their hips align just so he feels a welcome hardness to match his own. 

 

It's so good, making out in this closet like a pair of horny teenagers, and Clint almost wishes the woman would never leave so they could carry on forever, because he knows as soon as she's gone then so is Phil, and kissing will be replaced with more talk about Frat Regs and other things Clint couldn't care about if he tried - he knows, he _has_ tried to care about them and he just doesn't, not even slightly.

 

Clint slides his hand down to feel the hardness of Phil's cock, and it's big and thick and perfect, and if the space allowed it, he'd slide to his knees and suck the life out of it right now. As it is, he can do nothing more than put his lips as close to Phil's ear as he can and murmur, "Is this for me?" 

 

Phil doesn't reply beyond a shiver, and then Clint has to kiss his neck because it's right there, and he tastes like salt and sweat and _want_. A bolt of light shoots through Clint when a warm hand finds his cock too, hidden behind a moist towel that's inexpertly tied, so it falls away with a muted sound that the maid doesn't notice, humming to herself as she wanders back out of the room. Phil, after freezing still for a moment, puts his hand where it wanted to go before, right on the heated skin of Clint's hard cock, swearing so quietly as he wraps his hand around it. 

 

They can hear the woman sweeping in Phil's room and then the living room, humming all the while, and Phil just lazily jerks his fist up and down Clint's cock between little breaks where he brushes his fingers over Clint's balls instead. It doesn't seem quite fair, so Clint (and he's glad SHIELD has always encouraged his penchant for taking initiative) slides his hand beneath Phil's boxers and gets a handful of his own, and that's just perfect, so heavy and thick in his hand. There's a wetness at the tip, and Clint can't help but drag his thumb over it before slipping it into his mouth, just to see what Phil will do in the half-light of the closet they're crammed into. What Phil does is jerk his hips and dig that delicious erection into Clint's hip, holding on tighter to the flesh of Clint's cock and squeezing.

 

"Is this for me?" Phil asks, and Clint has to move his head away to get a look at Phil's face and make sure he didn't just hallucinate. Phil's eyes are dark even in the dimness of the wardrobe, and all Clint can do is swallow and smirk as he answers, "All yours." 

 

If they could talk, perhaps Clint would tell Phil all the filthy things he's thought of, about how he wants nothing more than for Phil to slide his cock into him, to bend him over his desk and fuck him senseless, to order him to his knees and demand Clint show him his best. Or how he imagines it the other way too, marching into Phil's office and giving orders of his own; fucking Phil over his own desk, watching him go to his knees, opening him up and pressing his cock into him til he sees stars and begs for more. But he can't say these things out loud, all he can do is let his hands and lips and cock try to communicate them, doing their level best to explain just how much they want to be in and on and around Phil with their clumsy actions. 

 

There's the sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen, and other clattering cleaning sounds. Neither of them are paying much attention anymore, and Clint totally gets why Frat Regulations are a thing because he's pretty sure a meteor could hit right outside this closet and he wouldn't even notice with Phil's tongue in his mouth and his hands touching him just about everywhere they can reach. 

 

"You gonna fuck me with this fat cock of yours?" Phil whispers hotly into Clint's ear, gripping him tightly again as if Clint might not know the exact fat cock he's talking about. 

"Is that what you want?" 

Phil doesn't answer beyond biting at Clint's lips again and then practically melting when Clint slides his hands down Phil's back to grip a firm buttock in each hand. "You want me to open you up, sir? Stretch you out til you can take me?"

"Clint," Phil gasps against Clint's neck, and then there's the unmistakable motion of someone jerking off, and it takes longer than it should, considering their close quarters, for Clint to figure out it's Phil's free hand and he's jerking himself off. And that won't do, that won't do at all.

"Hey," Clint says sharply, though still in a whisper. He grabs Phil's hand and stops him, kissing him hard and pulling the arm around his waist instead, where it palms against the naked skin of Clint's ass as Phil goes back to rutting and panting instead. 

 

"Don't want you to come til I'm inside you," Clint murmurs, "Or on my knees with your cock in my mouth." 

Phil's too far gone to do much but make a wet gasp against the skin of Clint's neck.

 

The woman finally leaves, the front door slamming shut with a blissful finality. The air that rushes over them when they nudge the door open is cool against the feverish heat of their skin, and Clint realises as it happens that this is the moment that could end everything. "Clint," Phil says, evidently just as refreshed by the clean air of the room outside the closet. "I-"

 

"No. Don't you dare, Phil." He puts his hands on either side of Phil's waist again and pulls him close enough to press the cock Clint's so brazenly waving around in front of himself against Phil's slightly less brazen erection, clothed as it is behind thin fabric. "You want this just as much as me." 

"Frat regulations…" 

"It's past that Phil." He keeps talking even as he's pulling Phil towards the bed and pressing him down against it. "We've already picked all the fruit - might as well make a pie." 

Clint slides off Phil's underwear and then slowly makes his way back up his body, relishing the grip in his hair when Phil slides his fingers into it, tugging when he stops Clint's delicate ministrations over his balls with a choked off, "I'll come if you keep doing that." 

 

Clint stops and grins up at Phil, who looks more wrecked than he's ever seen him, and better than he'd ever dreamed he'd look outside of his suit. Who knew there were these muscles and such soft, warm skin? And the hideous gnarled scar Clint has envisioned is nowhere to be seen. Clint dips his head to kiss at the juncture of thigh and hip, closing his eyes to savour Phil's perfect musk before moving away to pull Phil's legs up. 

 

"Theres -" Phil stops himself before finishing his sentence with his face going redder than it was before. "There's KY in my pack." And wow, what a dark horse Phil Coulson is. Clint surges up to kiss him again before slipping out to go search through the little shower bag of Phil's in his room. He brings back the tube and since he doesn't know what to say about this whole thing doesn't say anything at all, just gets back to where he was before warming some jelly on his fingers and sliding them right where he's wanted to for years. And now Clint thinks about it, it _has_ been years; years of wanting and wondering and hoping. 

 

Phil gives easily to Clint's fingers, and maybe he's just a relaxed kind of guy, but Clint has sudden mental images of Phil taking it up the ass from all kinds of guys, and women with strap-ons, and fucking himself with dildos at home, and it's hard to decide if the thought pleases him or makes him furiously jealous. Perhaps it's both, Clint thinks, unable to deny that the thought makes him even more turned on. "I'm ready," Phil says, hands in Clint's hair again, so Clint takes him at his word, going down for another kiss as he fumbles with a condom wrapper that's slippery and uncooperative. As he's doing that, Phil reaches down and pulls him close by the cock, and that's an image Clint feels ought to be on the front of the frat reg handbook, cause he'll probably do anything Phil wants now, tugged around with a hand on his dick like it's a short lead. 

 

Phil's ass is suddenly sliding around Clint's dick, and he hasn't even opened the stupid fucking condom yet, which he alerts Phil to wordlessly (because he can't use words right now) but keeps sinking in as Phil shakes his head and pulls him closer. "Don't need it," he gasps, hands so fucking strong on Clint's body. "We're both clean." Because of course, of course Phil knows Clint's medical file and just like with everything he uses his knowledge base at opportune moments to fulfill objectives. The objective of the moment being Clint's cock inside his ass.

 

So that's a first, Clint's never gone bareback with someone the first time they fucked before, and holy hell does it feel good. His cock, _his_ cock, his _cock_ , is inside Phil fucking Coulson. Phil _Coulson_. _Phil. Coulson_. Clint can't think beyond how tight and warm and slick Phil is around him and how even though he's the one fucking Phil, Phil's still telling him what to do, and hell, Clint's always been good with Phil's orders, it's a wonder they've never tried this before. Phil tells Clint faster and off he goes. He says slower and Clint rolls his hips like it's his job. Phil tells him, "Kiss me," and that's suddenly all of Clint's world. He tells him, "Bite my neck," and Clint's never done anything so efficiently in his life. When he mutters little 'yeah's and 'more's and 'that's good's they feel like perfect little bursts of pleasure in Clint's brain, a beautiful pattern of colours and shapes that make the sex he's had before look positively monochrome in comparison. 

 

Phil arches out beneath Clint, reaching his hands up to grasp at a headboard that isn't there, so Clint stretches up to grip his hands instead, to give him something to hold onto. Phil bucks and pulls Clint close with his ankles digging into the small of his back, clamping down around him with his ass as he comes with just the friction of Clint's belly against his cock and the gentle but firm grip of the hands on his wrists above him. 

 

"Come on," Phil murmurs when Clint's stopped to just watch Phil lose his tight control so beautifully, "don't stop." 

Clint's buried cock-deep in him and he clean forgot for a second, because all he could see and feel and care about was Phil's orgasm, and that's, is that normal? he thinks as he starts going again, held close against Phil as he tips easily over the edge with Phil's ass milking his cock, which is so inappropriate Clint feels like he could melt metal with how hot his face feels. It's fucking rude is what it is, and he's saying sorry and pulling out and trying to move away before being shhed and pulled close with Phil's cool fingers sliding into his hair and petting it, stroking over his face and kissing him. 

 

"Good pie," Phil says into the room at large, Clint's head resting on his chest with those perfect fingers soothing him still. Clint breathlessly laughs, just a huff of air which is almost more than he can really manage, and his cock, poor confused thing that it is, twitches despite itself. 

 

"Really good," Clint replies, though it comes out more like 'muh mh'd' cause he's never come that hard nor that intensely and his brain's doing some kind of manual reboot. Phil seems to know, cause he knows everything, and he just keeps petting Clint's too-hot skin and doesn't say anything til their breathing is more or less normal again and the moisture of sweat and cum on their skin isn't so much sexy as it is gross.

 

Clint thinks there's going to be serious talks immediately, and even in the shower together he's bracing himself for a throat clearing or a 'listen' from Phil, but it never comes. They wash off in the shower and then Phil's hands start to roam, and right there in the shower Phil starts probing his fingers around Clint's ass. "Can I fuck you?" he asks, fingers sliding tantalisingly close but never quite dipping inside. "Later?"

"Yes," Clint gasps, and it's too soon to get hard again, but his cock doesn't know which way is up anymore so it chubs up a little anyhow. 

 

And the talk still doesn't come, not that day and not the next. The maid left a note saying she'd be back next week, and there's communication from London saying it'll be a few more days, so all there really is to do is eat and fuck. So they do. They eat neat little meals on fine china plates, and buttoned up Phil Coulson displays a very impressive set of skills Clint had never suspected would be so finely honed.

 

Clint's no slouch himself, but he never thought sex could be the balletic, smooth choreography that Phil turns it into, and it seems uncharitable to Clint's previous conquests but he realises what it is - he's finally paired with the perfect partner. Phil's a goddamn pro, he's Fred Astaire and he's dancing on the ceiling, and Clint's doing his level best to keep up and loving every second of it. 

 

After three days he's exhausted, sore and achy in all the best places in all the best ways. 

 

The call comes in that there'll be a pick up in a matter of hours, and they clean up what they can (though there's DNA evidence pretty much, well, everywhere) and pack everything for extraction. There's time for a shower, though, so they climb in and sweetly kiss and touch under the  lukewarm water, and it's all so earnest Clint figures this must be the end of their torrid little affair and the Talk is imminent.

 

"I'm getting a new team," Phil says as he's soaping up Clint's back. Clint turns so fast he almost slips, and wouldn't that be a perfect end to the whole thing?

"What are you talking about?"

"Fury offered it to me - my own team. And I wasn't sure til now."

Clint feels like his world is suddenly crumbling apart between his fingers, because _he's_ Phil's team, him and Natasha and the Avengers. 

"I can't be your handler anymore Clint. I shouldn't have been your handler for a long time. My feelings have… been hard to reconcile with some of the missions I've had to oversee. With you." And Clint knows academically that this makes sense, that it's been hard for him to remove his feelings from any equation involving Coulson for a long time now, but still.

"Who's gonna watch my six?" 

 

Phil smiles and slides one soapy hand down Clint's ass. "I'll always be watching your six. I mean, if you still... want me when we're home." 

"So I get to have you for sex and stuff-"

"I was thinking 'boyfriend' but 'sex and stuff' works too."

Clint rolls his eyes. "But not as my handler at all?"

"You don't need a handler anymore Clint, you're an Avenger, and the Avengers don't need me."

"Yeah they do," Clint says, pouting. 

 

Phil kisses him slow and soft, and ugh, he's so nice, what an asshole. Clint rests his hand over the scar that's so smooth and faint on Phil's chest it's hard to believe it's barely 18 months since, well, that whole awful thing happened and he almost lost Phil completely. "What if-"

"There are always going to be 'what if's, Clint. But I don't think I could ever do what I did again. Not with you in my life."

He can see how unhappy Clint is, and he pulls him close under the spray of the shower. "Let's make a pact: we both keep ourselves from falling off of buildings or getting stabbed in the heart, if not for ourselves then for each other. Hm?" 

 

 

Phil's skin is slippery under Clint's fingers but still solid and true. Real. And he's saying that this could be real too, when they're home. It's not a hard decision, not really. 

 

"You have to let me help pick your team." 

Phil smiles and kisses Clint slowly. "Ok."

 


End file.
